


Peter Nureyev and the Heart of Venus

by Pholo



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: ...several times, Derealization, Dissociation, Emotional Baggage, Other, Peter Nureyev will put his emotions right here and then one day he will die, Time Shenanigans, a Groundhog Day scenario, character death (which doesn't stick), for the last chapter:, like...LOTS of derealization and dissociation, some hurt/comfort because I'm me, the bourgeoisie, tread carefully y'all, unnecessary descriptions of futuristic spaceship parking regulations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-01-16 21:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21278090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pholo/pseuds/Pholo
Summary: Peter Nureyev and Juno Steel both die at Zolatovna's party.Then Peter wakes up back at the front of the red carpet line.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm rushing to get this whole fic done before The Man in Glass Part 2 releases for Patreon supporters, so pardon any typos and such! I'll comb through the fic again later. 
> 
> Note that sometimes the characters will refer to Zolatovna as "Zolatov" because they don't know she's changed her name yet!

“Makes me feel a little silly for not leaving Mars earlier, to be honest. I’ve been thinking a lot about that whole process—finding myself. What I did during it. And...I guess what I’m trying to say to you is…”

Peter looks on as a woman fidgets with a cuff on her wrist. It’s not worth nearly enough to pickpocket, but Peter still has to restrain his fingers. “That’s all very interesting, Juno, but does this really seem like the best time for this conversation?”

“I…” Juno sounds unmoored, like a piece of driftwood caught in a river eddy. “I mean, I guess not, but—”

“Excellent! I agree. If we keep this streak of agreements up, perhaps we will work well together after all.”

“But, uh, didn’t Buddy say that you had to—”

“Now, it appears they’re checking identification by the door. Come along.” Peter has to wrangle his feet to move at Ransom’s more languid pace. _Nureyev_ wants to walk at a short clip.

If Dauphin were the sort of person to sigh with his whole body, Peter would’ve done so just then. _Nureyev_ wants a lot of things these days: to wear more jewelry and less eyeshadow; to cross his legs when he sits down and curl his tongue when he yawns and drink something other than dark roast coffee at the breakfast table; and—most ardently of all—to wail like a bereaved madman at a certain ex-detective, now dressed up and radiant as a sunrise at Peter’s hip.

_Why did you leave?_ Nureyev pounds against Peter’s skull. _What could I have done to make you stay? Was I so poisonous or pointless to you that I wasn’t even worth a goodbye?_

Peter squashes Nureyev’s pleas with a weary but practiced mental stomp of the foot. This wouldn’t have been a problem before, he muses. Nureyev didn’t used to _want_. For two decades he'd lived in a little storage bin at the back of Peter’s head, tucked between the spicy-sweet smell of the Brahman street markets and the burn of hot water as Peter scrubbed Mag’s blood out from under his fingernails. But now Nureyev has tasted freedom. These days he scampers around under Peter’s skin like a wild animal, always a needle’s-breadth from the surface of any given mask. It takes more and more effort each time for Peter to stuff him back down into a manageable shape; fold him away into his box; save all his soppy neediness and clutter for whatever future version of himself can handle the psychological strain.

And if that version never comes to pass…well. Peter won’t exactly be_ bothered._

“Monsieur and Madame Dauphin,” the doorman announces, and Peter snaps back to the present. There’s a short burst of applause as Juno makes a parody of a turn. Then he stumbles.

Nureyev springs to the front of Peter’s consciousness. In a flash of warmth there’s a hand wrapped around his own. Peter pushes past the shock of contact to pluck Juno back onto his feet. Juno stares up at him like he’s seen a ghost—and then he has the _gall_ to laugh that awful nervous laugh of his, all wind chimes and sunshine. It makes Ransom’s and Nureyev’s and Dauphin’s stomachs somersault. It’s so unfair, how one laugh—one perfect smile—can topple the walls he’s stacked around each of his aliases.

“Pretty smooth, right?” Juno says. He sounds bashful.

Peter only redacts his hand. He folds away the dashed look on Juno’s face and turns to enter the ballroom.

He has this under control.

  
“Never mind. We’ll figure it out. Don’t tell Buddy.”

“But—”

The call ends. Juno’s comms make a dull thunk where he claps them onto the tablecloth.

He wilts under Peter’s glare.

“So,” Juno says. “This isn’t great.”

“An astute deduction, Juno. I’m pleased to hear you’ve retained your detective skills as well as your penchant for _sabotage._”

“Hey—that wasn’t all me, okay? Zolatovna didn’t want to sell that thing.”

Peter pinches the bridge of his nose. “No, and now that you’ve made such a spectacle out of us we’d be lucky to make off with a wine bottle, let alone a galactic treasure map.”

“Guess I picked a good time to go sober, then.”

“_Juno._”

Juno props his elbows on the table and leans forward. “Look. We can go talk to Zolatovna once they wrap up—figure out her deal with the map. She already gave us an excuse.”

“If you’re honestly about to suggest that I _take her up on her offer_—”

Panic flashes behind Juno’s eye. “What—no! What the hell, Ransom. You know I wouldn’t ask you to—”

“Then what, pray tell, _do_ you expect me to do?”

“I don’t know!” Juno throws up his hands. “Just…play along for a while! Act the part; gather intel—you know, kind of like you’ve made a_ career out of _for the past_ two decades?_”

“I don’t know what you’ve been told, Juno, but I’m a burglar, not a miracle worker.”

“We don’t need a miracle. We need a _plan_.” Juno wipes a hand across his face. His eyepatch slips by degrees; he grumbles and rearranges the strap. “Dammit, Ransom. In what world am I the optimist here? Whatever happened to mister four-escape-plans? Mister there’s-always-a-way-out? To the guy who called two weeks trapped in a dustbin ten miles underground and _torture by picana_ a ‘momentary inconvenience?’”

Heat rages within Peter’s chest like a house fire. _“He woke up._”

That reaches Juno. Peter can tell as much from the look on his face—by the way his fingers spasm once around the tablecloth, then slip into his lap. His frown goes tight at the edges.

“Fine,” Juno says hoarsely. He gathers up his gown from behind him and stands. Several heads turn to follow the motion of his chair, made curious by their argument. “I’m going up to the stage.”

Ransom’s mouth sieves out Peter’s chipped edges: “Dare I ask why?”

“Zolatovna keeps checking that part of the crowd for a reaction.” Juno gestures vaguely to the right of their table. “It’ll be easier to follow her line of sight from the front of the room. I want to know who’s got her attention.”

“Just keep me up to date. If you’d like me to prostitute myself to them as well, I’ll need time to prepare.”

But Juno already has his back turned. Peter watches as he picks his way through the warren of tables and waitstaff. He’s still not used to the breadth of his gown, and more and more patrons turn to look at him every time he trips or knocks a drink off a table. The display shouldn’t make Peter’s heart hurt, but somehow he finds his fingers tangled around the front of his dress shirt anyway—like maybe he can wrench the ache out of his chest.

Peter forcibly unclenches his fingers. _Fold it away._ He takes the barest swig of his drink, then finds Ms. Zolatovna where she stands at the center of the stage. With all the flare of a magician she waves to a heart-shaped stone on the auction cart. Peter’s head turns to the tune of each bid; twenty million creds here, another thirty million there. For a while the bids bounce back and forth between two patrons like the universe’s most expensive game of ping pong. Then Zolatovna’s voice rings out across the gallery:

“Three hundred million creds!”

There’s a pause. No one else bids. Peter checks the computer pad at the center of his table; the words _sold_ and _Nova Zolatovna_ pop up in bold, red letters next to_ Item 7: The Heart of Venus_. If the list is to be believed, it’s the third auction item Zolatovna has bought in so many minutes. Peter’s frown deepens. If Zolatovna doesn’t want to sell them, why has she put these items up for auction? Is this all a publicity stunt of some sort—a flagrant display of her wealth? Or is Juno onto something, and she’s aiming to capture the attention of someone in the crowd?

Peter sets his shoulders. He needs to commune with Juno.

That’s his last thought before the stage explodes.

It takes a while to register. One moment there’s the usual commotion of an auction crowd, all glassware clinks and laughter, and then there’s a boom like a planet ripped open, and the bone-sharp snap of pillars and beams and concrete torn asunder. A plume of debris balloons up from the stage to swallow the back of the room—from Peter’s table he can only make out shadows as patrons scream and scramble out of the way. The chair topples behind Peter as he stands. He charges towards the back of the room. The guests descend upon him like a wave, a stampede of ash-riddled dress clothes and too-pale faces. Shoulders slam Peter from all sides; gloved hands shove him out of the way. Peter pushes through, and through, and through—closer and closer to the stage. In that moment he only knows four words. They spin around his head over and over:

_Juno was up there. Juno was up there. Juno was up there. Juno was…_

Finally the crowd tapers, and Peter enters the disaster zone. Wood and glass splinter under his feet. A fire devours the crumpled curtains at the back of the stage; smoke pours from the scene in an ugly black column. Peter has the mind the cover his mouth with the crook of his elbow as he runs. He processes the bodies on a peripheral level: as long as they’re not Juno’s, he doesn’t care. He lets the blood paint the bottoms of his shoes and staggers on.

“Juno!” he shouts. He can only hope he can be heard over the screams of the party guests. “Juno!”

Nothing. Peter blames the smoke for the way his eyes water—for the choked waver of his voice when he yells: “_Juno!_”

Then Peter hears a groan.

By all rights he shouldn’t be able to—not over the clamor of the guests. But Peter does, and his heart lurches, and he swerves around as though yanked by a puppeteer. He clambers over a hill of rubble, past the blocked emergency exit.

There’s a crumpled figure along the back wall, their yellow gown stained grey with debris.

Peter feels a wounded sound claw up his throat. He staggers to Juno’s side, then drops to his knees. His comms buzz, but he reaches for Juno’s neck, not his coat pocket. Two fingers align themselves atop Juno’s pulse point.

He’s alive. More than that—Peter’s touch summons Juno back to awareness. His eye cracks open. His chest hitches, and then there’s an awful gasp, sharp and wet and _no, no, no,_ Peter knows that noise. It’s the noise of heists gone wrong—wrenched from security guards’ throats as Peter plunges a knife between their ribs. A last, feeble grasp at life as a curtain falls down over his victim’s eyes.

Juno can’t make that noise. He _can’t._

Peter’s hands are frantic. He folds his palms over Juno’s cheeks. Juno twitches. He seeks out Peter’s face, and the pained glaze lifts from his eye; a tiny smile threatens the corners of his mouth.

“Nur…ey…”

“Don’t,” Peter begs. “Please…”

He doesn’t know how to go on. Doesn’t know what he means to ask. There’s a groan from above as a support beam strains. Then Peter’s mind flashes to the crew; he retracts a hand from Juno’s face to fetch his comms. Juno’s broken sound of protest drives a stake through his chest.

“I—Juno, I’m sorry, I’m—” Peter makes sure one hand stays firmly planted on Juno’s cheek. He uses the other to flip open his comms. He doesn’t care who’s on the other end; he tells them, “Juno’s hurt.”

Vespa’s voice scrapes against his ear, right to business: “Where and how badly?”

“I don’t see any blood. It sounds internal. Likely the lungs. I…” Peter takes a second to claw down his panic. “There was a bomb. He was within the blast radius.”

“How’s his spine? Is he numb anywhere?”

“I don’t know.” Peter scoots closer to Juno on the floor. “Juno,” he says, past the burn of his throat. The smoke has gotten thicker. “I need to know whether you’ve hurt your spine. Are you numb anywhere?”

Juno gathers his strength. “No,” he coughs. “You’d be…surprised. Kind of…hurts…all over…”

“He’s not numb,” Peter reports.

“Okay,” Vespa says. “You’re going to move him into a recovery position. Lay him down on his left side and put his head on your lap. Have him bend whichever leg he’s lying on, but keep the top leg straight. You got that?”

“Understood.”

“We’ll be there as soon as we can. All the ships are parked, so we have a clear shot to the launch pads, but Zolatov’s security detail threw up a Pulsar around the gallery after…whatever the hell went down. No one can leave or enter the airspace until Rita’s hacked their equipment.” A yell from the other end of the comms line. “She says she’s close. Ransom—stay on the line and _don’t fucking die._”

“We’ll do our best.” Peter sets his comms on the ground. He slips his other hand from Juno’s face to his shoulder. Juno only wheezes, like he doesn’t have the strength for a real cough. His eye has gone glassy again.

Peter gathers the remains of his wits.

“All right.” He guides Juno sideways towards the ground—towards his lap. It takes a moment, but he manages to arrange his legs and head to match Vespa’s description. “All right. You’re going to be all right.”

“I…know.”

It’s a weak statement, hindered by pain and lack of oxygen. But those two tiny words are laced with a world of conviction. Peter feels their weight on his mind like a physical presence—and he knows with a burst of sudden, hot-white clarity that Juno _means them._

Peter Nureyev tastes tears. He doesn’t know when he started to cry.

“Juno.” He knows the name must be lost over the roar of the crowd—there’s a new, more lethal bottleneck at the front door now. The fingers of Peter’s right hand quake where they slip through Juno’s dusty hair. “Juno…”

It doesn't take more than a few seconds. There's a thunderous _crack_ from overhead as the last support beam snaps.

Peter throws himself forward over Juno’s body. The ceiling collapses on top of them.


	2. Chapter 2

“…Makes me feel a little silly for not leaving Mars earlier, to be honest. I’ve been thinking a lot about that whole process—finding myself. What I did during it. And...I guess what I’m trying to say to you is—”

Peter lurches forward like a patient under a defibrillator. The world slips like wet clay under his feet. Juno grabs Peter’s arm before he can fall. “What the hell, Ransom—”

“You’re alive,” Peter chokes out, and the words aren’t coated with smoke. He turns enough under Juno’s grasp to catalogue the yellow glow of his gown; the tufts of his hair, clear of debris. He grapples with the desire to check his pulse. “You…how are you…”

Juno frowns. “Ransom—hey. Are you okay? Do we need to go back to the ship?”

“The ship…”

Peter’s mind roils. The ship. The party. The bomb. He sees Zolatovna’s haircut; the cream tablecloth of their auction table; the blood strewn across heaps of rubble. He can still smell smoke. He doesn’t know whether he’s dead, or whether he’s emerged from some kind of daydream—delusional or prophetic he has yet to discern.

But Peter knows one thing for certain: If he tells Juno a story about a bomb and a crowd of two hundred trapped under a buckling ceiling, he’ll want to save the day.

Peter remembers the hoarse rattle of Juno’s voice, and suddenly his debts are barely a blur in his mind’s rearview mirror.

“Yes,” Peter decides at last. “Yes, we need to go back to the ship.”

Juno looks him up and down. In the end Peter must look as rattled as he feels, because Juno’s gaze softens. His hand slips from Peter’s shoulder. Peter can’t find the strength to pretend he’s unfazed by the loss.

“Buddy,” Juno says to his comms. “We need to call this off. Ransom’s not doing so hot.”

“What? Did something happen?”

Peter gets the sense he’s meant to answer that one, but he can’t find the words. He can still feel Juno’s hair under his hand, and dust at the back of his mouth. The memory tangles up his gut—clogs his throat like a bramble patch. He feels scared and helpless and—as much as he works to squash him back down—far, far too much like Peter Nureyev.

Juno seems spooked by Peter’s silence. He turns back to his comms. “We’re just not going to be able to do it, all right? Tell us where to meet you and we can get the map some other way.”

“‘Some other way?’ Juno, this could be the last time that map sees the outside of a DNA-locked safe for the next dozen years.”

Juno’s tone goes hard and flat: “So we’ll have to get creative. You know this was only gonna’ work with Ransom around to play babysitter, and he can’t do the mission—so I’m gonna’ make sure he gets to the ship and uh, skip out on the part where I get arrested by Zolatov’s goons. You get me?”

There’s a long pause. Then the comms crackle with Buddy’s sigh.

“It’s going to be a real trick getting back to the surface at the height of the party,” she muses. “There’s a long line of ships ahead of us. We’ll have to cycle through the queue. With a packed lot…you’ll have to wait at least forty minutes.”

“Knew those road trip games would come in handy.”

“Whatever gets you through this mess, I suppose. Juno, Ransom—we’ll see you at the launch pads.”

“Sure thing.” Juno snaps his comms off and looks to Peter for…what? Confirmation?

Peter bobs his head. He can’t remember whether that’s one of his, Nureyev’s, or Dauphin’s mannerisms—but Juno looks relieved all the same, so maybe Peter can stand to save that one mystery for later.

  
Up until the explosion, the boundary lines between Peter and Nureyev had been—while muddied—at least _discernible._ Just a few hours ago Peter could tell when Nureyev was under wraps, and when he held the reigns of his conscious mind. Now Peter can’t determine Ransom’s desires from Nureyev’s. The two aliases have mingled like two pools of paint; any attempts to sift one from the other only causes them to mix further.

What is this new color Peter had created? Who is he, and where is he, and what does he want from Juno? Is Peter relieved when Juno doesn’t actually suggest any road trip games, or disappointed? The two sit on a metal bench along the walkway of a landing strip—far enough away to hear their comms over the roar of the engines—and look on as ship after ship lands, unloads another round of passengers, and taxies to the parking hangars. Several times Juno seems on the verge of a question—but then he’ll frown and clamp his mouth shut.

At the half-hour mark he says,

“I know you don’t. But uh. I’m here. If you ever want to talk.”

And that’s that. Peter doesn’t know whether he _wants_ to talk, per say, but he knows he _can’t_ let Juno know about the bomb—not until he’s too far away to try and play the hero. So he busies himself with mental housework.

It’s fruitless. Try as Peter might to fold away his concerns, the cabinets of his mind are stuffed to the brink. He simply doesn’t have the mental room to put off the enormity of this disaster any longer.

He gets lucky, and the crew arrives before his nervous breakdown. There’s a familiar whoosh of engines, and then the Carte Blanche folds down out of the night sky like a giant paper crane. It lands with Jet’s signature precision. They’re the last guests to arrive on-site, and several of the ground crew peel away from the apron as the ship rolls towards the nearest parking hangar. They’re scheduled to go on break, Peter surmises, before the auction ends and they have to clear the same two-hundred-or-so guests for takeoff.

Juno stands from the bench. Peter follows. It’s a short walk to their ship’s hangar. Vespa meets them at the Carte Blanche's front entrance. She leans against the door with her arms crossed over her chest, the perfect portrait of scorn.

“You better be on death’s door, Ransom,” she greets, “or I’ll be happy to escort you.”

“Lay off,” Juno snaps, and Peter can’t remember whether he’s supposed to be offended or pleased by Juno’s defensiveness. “We can talk when everyone’s together.”

“Don’t think Buddy’ll be any happier about this than me,” Vespa warns, and turns from the doorway.

Juno and Peter step up onto the ramp. Their footsteps are loud as drumbeats where they cross over the threshold. A lever clicks closed under Vespa’s grip; the ramp retracts, and then the ship’s door suctions closed behind them.

“Come on,” Vespa grumbles. She starts down the hall. Peter feels the Carte Blanche roll towards the closest launch pad.

Juno and Peter find the crew gathered around the pilot’s chair. Rita fixes them both with the pout of a vet-coned golden retriever. Jet maintains his stoic facade, though Peter swears he can feel the animosity grow from his side of the room.

Buddy has taken over for Jet in the pilot’s chair. She doesn’t turn to Peter and Juno; rather, she focuses on the dashboard as she prepares the ship for takeoff. Someone from the ground crew confirms their clearance over the radio. Buddy echoes her assent.

Silence consumes the cabin for one long, awful moment.

“Explain,” Buddy demands—not to Peter, but to the controls.

Peter swallows. He catches a glimpse of the clock on the corner of the dash. In a flash he runs through the timeline of the auction. If he’s right—and he didn’t dream up some kind of nightmare scenario on a whim—then the bomb will go off at any moment.

“Well?” Vespa growls. The ship rumbles like an echo of her anger.

Peter curls his toes in his dress shoes. He’s certain he’ll be fired from the crew regardless of his excuse, but he decides he’d rather start slow: “I haven’t…worked, for a long time.”

Vespa looks like she can’t decide whether she wants to strangle Peter or throw him out a porthole. “So you banked on a heist that could tank our entire mission because you got _cold feet?_”

“I didn’t say that.” The ship rattles as they take off. Relief loosens Peter’s tongue: “I…may or may not have had some sort of psychotic break.”

Juno makes a face like the moon just landed on his foot. “What?”

“I saw something. Something terrible. A…premonition, maybe, or a vision.”

“Ooooo,” Rita declares. “You mean like in _My Grandmother’s an Oracle: Revenge of the Horse Ghost?_”

Peter has never heard of that stream in his life. “Yes, exactly like that.”

“_Wow,_” says Rita.

Buddy won’t be put off track: “You said ‘something terrible.”

“An explosion. It took out the stage and several load-bearing pillars. The ceiling collapsed.”

They’re on a set course now, already a thousand feet above the planet’s surface. Buddy turns to look at Peter over her shoulder. Her eye narrows, and the way she searches his face suddenly reminds him very much of Juno.

Then Buddy turns back to the dashboard. Whatever she’s gleaned from her assessment, she doesn’t share with the crew. “Rita darling, I need you to check the auction feed.”

“Yes ma’am.” Rita snatches her pad up out of her lap. She taps the screen awake, types out a line of code—and then her fingers go rigid on the keypad.

“Oh,” she says dully.

Peter feels the air grow thin. Everyone knows there’s something seriously amiss when Rita’s tone goes flat like that.

Juno breaks the silence first: “What’s wrong?”

“Cameras one and two are down, boss.” Rita’s fingers are back to work; they dance across the screen at an unrivaled pace. “But camera three…”

In an awkward lilt she raises the pad for the crew to see. Peter’s stomach drops. Through the grain of the footage he can make out the remains of the stage. An amoeba of debris-coated patrons surges past the camera, presumably towards the door. There’s no audio, but their screams scrape against Peter’s eardrums. Smoke clogs his throat.

Vespa’s footsteps snap Peter from the memory. She grasps him by the arms. “You planned this!”

“Hey, hold on,” Juno croaks. He staggers over, ready to pry the two apart. “What would he even have to gain, here? Ransom wanted the map as much as you or me or any of us; he planned and researched as much as we did, and let us dock and wait an hour and a half to get to the door. Why would anybody waste their time like that when they knew the whole venue was rigged to _explode?_”

“So he’s a _prophet._”

“I’ve seen stranger things—lived ‘em, too.” Juno takes a step closer to Peter. His hands tremble at his sides. “Ransom. How many people are going to die down there?”

Vespa’s hands feel like manacles around Peter’s arms. He stares at Juno and the horrible, vulnerable look on his face—and a truth strikes him like a blow to the head.

Juno has changed for the better. That much Peter understood the moment the words “I know” left his mouth. What he hadn’t yet grasped was the conditionality of the fact. Juno is strong as a bull and stubborn as a rock, but recovery doesn’t follow a linear, step-by-step schedule—not for anyone. Juno could get better and stay better…or he could relapse.

And what better trigger than this very disaster? Peter sees the pain and panic on Juno’s face now, and he’s haunted by the knowledge that Juno will find a way to blame himself for this. He’ll have tried to start a new life—put old habits behind him—and he’ll be rewarded on his first real day on the job with the deaths of a little over two hundred people.

Peter’s mind spirals like water down a drain. How long will Juno take to recover from this tragedy, he wonders? How long will he and Rita and the rest of the crew have to work to convince him that this wasn’t his fault? How much ground will he have lost by then? Will this be what convinces him he’s unsalvageable?

“Peter,” Juno begs. And Peter’s whole body hitches, because that’s the first time he’s called him by his first name. The ship rumbles underfoot. Peter drags the words out of his chest like a blade from a wound:

“I’m so sorry.”

A muscle twitches along Juno’s jawline. He curses, then pivots to address the pilot’s chair: “How soon can we get back down there?”

“We were the last to arrive, so there won’t be a queue—”

A sharp thump cuts Buddy off. The equipment goes dark across Buddy’s dashboard, then flickers back to life like a candle in a stiff breeze. Peter’s heart rate kicks up.

“A Pulsar,” he remembers.

“A—” Vespa whirls around to study their equipment. “Dammit, you’re right. Dammit, dammit, _dammit_…”

The ship makes another shudder. Juno starts forward, unsure how to help. “What’s happening?”

“It looks like Zolatov’s security detail has activated a Pulsar device,” Jet supplies.

“A what?”

“A weapon,” Vespa snaps, “that emits magnetic pulses at a five, maybe seven-mile radius. It makes the equipment on ships like ours go apeshit.”

“So they think we’re the perp,” Juno concludes.

“Yeah—us or anybody else who’s airborne right now—and they don’t seem to care whether we land or crash so long as we don’t leave the atmosphere.” Vespa rounds on Rita. “You! Can you hack their systems?”

“I can sure as heck try, Miss Vespa!” Rita’s fingers are a blur over her keypad. The ship gives another nasty lurch, and Juno rushes to steady her. Vespa and Buddy are like a well-oiled machine where they reach across one another to twist knobs and snap switches up and down. Buddy noses the ship down towards the ground. The emergency lights go on, then sputter off again like a finicky tail light.

“AAA!” For a moment Rita’s pad winks out, but then she’s back to business. “Phewf. We’re real close, Cap’n A!”

“Let’s hope so. Our equipment can only hold up against so many of those pulses.”

As though to press the point, an alarm erupts from the top of the dashboard. The Carte Blanche’s dive steepens, enough that Peter has to grab a latch on the wall to keep his balance. A glance at the altimeter and engine light confirms Peter’s worst fears. They’ve lost an engine.

“Everyone get to the fuselage,” Buddy snaps. “Strap in and prepare for an emergency landing—”

Another slew of alarms scream to life before she can finish. Vespa resumes her string of curses. Juno grabs Rita by the arm. Then Peter feels a hand on his own back. He’s steered towards the main cabin like a lost sheep.

“Vespa dear,” Peter hears over his shoulder. The words are delivered calmly but with a razor’s edge. “You need to go after them.”

“Not a chance, Bud.”

“Please, Vespa. We talked about this—”

“Yeah, and I’ve got a harness, don’t I? Look, I’ll strap up right now.”

“If we crash—”

“_We’re not gonna’ crash._”

The Carte Blanche begs to differ. One wobble leads to another, and then the ship drops under Peter’s feet.

Only Rita has reached her seat. She shouts after Juno as he falls. Peter’s on the ground too, and Jet. They scramble to stand, but the ship dips to one side, and they all slide towards the wall. Buddy shouts over the alarms, but Peter can’t make out the words. Before he, Juno and Jet can collide, the ship bucks. The new angle sends them back towards the cockpit. Suddenly Peter and Juno are close enough to touch. Peter throws out a hand. He feels the pull of Juno’s fingers clasped around his wrist. The two hold onto each other as the ship enters a free fall.

Peter’s body floats off the floor of the ship. He hears his name—which one he doesn’t know. The cabin goes dark.

Then they hit the ground.


	3. Chapter 3

“Makes me feel a little silly for not leaving Mars earlier, to be honest. I’ve been thinking a lot about that whole process—finding myself. What I did during it. And...I guess what I’m trying to say to you is…”

This time Peter doesn’t react. Maybe he’s too shellshocked. Maybe his limbs need a minute or two to remember they’re not horribly disfigured—for his brain to process a scenario where he’s not just a red smudge on the wall of a busted-up spaceship. He stands there like a wax statue as the sounds of the red carpet line buzz around his ears.

So. He can have another go. Peter’s options flip behind his eyes like a rolodex. There are about a dozen ways they could survive this. They could run and hide, for one thing, and let Buddy pick them up a day from now and a town away. They could go to the party and stick to the front of the room so they’re the first ones out the door when the bomb goes off…

But now there’s a new factor to consider: Juno’s reaction to the deaths of two hundred people.

Peter can’t save Juno. That’s Juno’s responsibility. But Peter has the choice to _help_.

All that remains is for him to decide whether or not he wants to.

In that moment, Juno’s voice reaches Peter from his place of contemplation.

“…Felt like I was a time bomb. Sooner or later I was gonna’ get you killed, or ruin you so you were as broken and bitter as I was. I didn’t want to drag you down with me, so I sabotaged us while I still felt like I had the choice.” He wraps one hand around the fabric of his gown. “Because as much as I hated my life…I knew my depression and my anger. It was normal, and a routine doesn’t have to be healthy to give you a sense of control over your life. I was miserable back then, but I was _safe_.”

Juno’s comms beep. He doesn’t answer them. “Ransom. The hole I’d dug for myself…that was my home for _so long_. When you threw me down a rope, I was scared shitless to climb out and discover I was as much of a terrible person when I was better as when I was depressed. Or to find out I could try as long and as hard as I could to get better and _still fail. _So I decided to save myself the trouble and not bother at all, and I ran like a coward, and now I can only tell you that I’m sorry—I’m so, _so sorry,_ Ransom.” The doorman waves Peter forward. He stays rooted to the spot. Juno goes on: “And I don't say that to try and score sympathy points, or even ask for your forgiveness. I’m saying it because you deserve to know why I left that night. You deserve to know that I did what I did because I was scared—not _of _you, but of _failing_ you, and of failing myself.” He extracts his fingers from his gown with a tense tug. “I’m probably always going to struggle with…uh. You know. Depression. Maybe alcoholism. But now I know that I’d rather take a risk and fail sometimes than be safe and miserable forever. I’m not going to run away from my own life anymore. I’m not going to turn away help. I’m going to work hard to be a better person, and I’ll do whatever I can to make this a successful partnership.” An awkward pause. “Professionally, I mean. As business partners. Um.”

There’s a cough.

“Excuse me,” the door man drawls. “If you’re quite done with your impassioned speech, there’s a long line of guests still waiting to enter the building…”

The moment snaps.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure," Juno mumbles. He slips away towards the door. “Here’s our account…”

Peter’s comms beep from somewhere very far away. He doesn’t reach for them. Peter doesn’t need Buddy’s commentary about gowns and bottlenecks right now. He’s almost too frazzled to move, let alone quip. Out of habit Peter tries to fold away his inner turmoil—but his brain hasn’t reset with the rest of his timeline, and his storage bin for ‘earth-shattering revelations’ is already fit to burst with Juno-related paraphernalia.

_It wasn’t me_, Nureyev proclaims, giddy with relief. _It really wasn’t me._ _Juno wasn’t disgusted by me, or afraid of me, or even _angry _at me… _

“Monsieur Dauphin?” The doorman prods. All at once Peter registers the disgruntled mutters at his back. He manages to stagger up to the door. The doorman announces Dauphin’s name without preamble, then waves him through to the main room as a farmer might shoo a chicken back into its coop.

Peter finds Juno a few paces from the entrance, under a decoration that could probably outshine a dwarf star. One look at his face and Peter knows he’s as flustered as Peter.

“Look,” he starts. “I really shouldn’t have done that back there. I know you would’ve wanted me to wait until—”

“I’ve been to this party before,” Peter spouts.

Juno frowns. His hand falls from the back of his neck. “…Um. You mean to one of Zolatov’s auctions?”

“Not ‘one of.’ _This one_.” Peter gestures around the room for emphasis. “I have walked through _that_ door, and bickered with you over _that_ refreshments table, and sat beside you in one of _those_ chairs and watched Zolatovna auction off a suspiciously small amount of her belongings on _that_ stage—”

Juno tilts his head. “‘Zolatovna?’”

“She got a haircut,” Peter dismisses. “What _matters_ is that I’ve been through this two-hour cycle twice already—and both times have gone horribly, fatally wrong.” He does his best not to sound desperate, but his filters came down with the walls around his aliases: “I’m not asking you to believe me, Juno. I’m asking you to _trust me_.”

The chatter of patrons fills the silence. Juno’s Adam’s apple bobs. Peter swears he can hear the gears of his brain churn.

Then he says, “Okay.”

Peter's shoulders droop. “Really? It’s that simple?”

Juno nods. “What do you need me to do?”

Peter struggles to reign back the wave of relief. He didn’t expect to get this far. “There’s a bomb,” he musters up. “Likely under the stage. For the past two cycles it’s detonated roughly an hour and fifteen minutes after we arrive at the front door.”

Juno doesn’t even hesitate. “So the first question is what type of bomb we’re dealing with. If it’s a time bomb, we can afford to evacuate the building and get Zolatovna’s security to call in a squad. But if it’s remote-activated—”

“Then any signs of us having caught on to the perpetrator’s ploy will likely cause them to trigger the bomb early,” Peter finishes unhappily. “Do you know, I think I prefer the former option.”

“Believe me, I feel the same way. But I don’t want to make any assumptions.” Juno peers over Peter’s shoulder at the stage. “What happened right before the bomb went off?”

Peter rewinds his mental film reel. “You’d just crossed to the back of the room, and Zolatovna had sold an auction item called The Heart of Venus.”

“To?”

“Herself. Same as the map and a small antique mirror."

Juno raises his eyebrows. “Okay. That’s…weird.” A pause. “Anything else you can think of that might be a clue about the bomb or the perp?”

Peter narrows his eyes at his own memory. “In that timeline you told me Zolatovna kept checking on someone in the crowd.”

A couple brushes past Peter on their way to the drinks table. Juno and Peter hover awkwardly until they’re out of earshot. Then Juno curses. “Dammit, Ransom—there are too many options. We don’t even know that the perp wanted to kill Zolatovna; this could all be a ploy to destroy that Heart of Venus thing, or to distract from another crime.”

“So what do we do?”

Juno massages his temples. “Well, we know where the bomb is at least. We should probably focus on that.” His gaze slides back to Peter. “If you got a look at this thing, do you think you’d be able to tell what type of bomb it is?”

Peter recalls a particularly messy heist on Neptune. “Remote-activated bombs often come with comms attached to one side…that, or tech with an equivalent electrical current to stimulate the fuse.” He caves to an old habit and bites his lip. “I can’t say I’ve ever defused a bomb, Juno. Remote-activated or otherwise.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” Juno assures him. “It’s too risky. Even the bomb squad at the HCPD would use a robot to destroy the detonator, or just throw the bomb out into the desert and let it blow up a sand dune.”

“Not a lot of sand dunes at our disposal,” Peter muses.

“No,” Juno agrees glumly. “But even if we can’t actually defuse the bomb, it’s still worth it to find it and figure out what kind it is. If it’s a time bomb, we can get the security team and evacuate the building. And if it’s remote-activated…then we can focus on finding the perp and taking them out.”

“So the next step is to get to the stage.” Peter looks out over the sea of guests. He can make out several paths to the back of the room, but none of them are optimal. “It’s likely this person or their confidantes will have their eyes on the stage to make sure no one finds the bomb. We’ll have to be very careful not to attract their attention.”

Juno points to his gown. “Parrot in a clown suit,” he reminds him.

A lightbulb blinks above Peter’s head. He must make a face, because Juno says, “Oh, no.”

“Juno,” Peter says dangerously. “I need you to do what you’re best at.”

“Detective work?” Juno guesses, like he knows that’s the wrong answer.

Peter grins. He’s surprised by the warm lilt to his tone: “Making a scene.”

There’s a great ruckus from the other side of the room. Juno collides with the drinks table with all the grace of a golden refrigerator. Glasses fly; liquor bottles crash onto the floor; silverware bounces across the tile like a hundred metal fish. Heads turn from all around the room. From his position at the stage Peter ducks down onto his knees. He’s beneath the stage before the last wine glass hits the floor.

It’s dark under the stage; the curtain along the edges brushes the floor. There’s not enough room to stand. Peter does his best to get comfortable on his knees. He pulls out his comms. There’s a tiny click as the flashlight function blooms to life.

Peter lets out a long, slow breath. He flashes his comms at the planks of wood above his head.

It doesn’t take long to find, as bombs go. Towards the front of the stage, a bundle of pipes and wires hangs nestled between two beams. Peter gets up close and searches for a timer. Instead he finds a telltale burner comms fused to the frontmost pipe.

Peter grits his teeth. He scoots a few feet away and dials Juno’s comms.

Juno picks up on the first ring. “Desirée! Didn’t expect to hear from you today.”

It’s strange to hear Juno actually apply himself to a disguise. If the perp has access to this call, they won't suspect a thing. Peter sneaks another glance at the bomb. “I’m not catching you at a bad time, am I?”

“Nah…I’m at that auction I told you about. Already lost about fifty thousand creds on a drinks table I didn’t even bid on.” Someone makes a loud noise on Juno’s end of the call, and he has to pause for a moment. “So you know, I'm great. How about you? Got any liquor you need spilled?”

“Well,” Peter says, “I’m late to a potluck, and since you’re the chef between the two of us I had to trouble you for some advice.”

“You never call without a favor to ask, do you Des?”

“So you won’t help?”

“I can say I'll do my best, but that's not much. What do you need?”

“I have a cake in the oven.” They’d established a set of code words before Juno’s stunt with the drinks table: pie meant a time bomb, and cake meant a remote-activated bomb. “But the recipe doesn’t list a bake time. I’ve made cakes like this one before, and the rest of the recipe looks familiar…” It’s a small bomb, all things considered—maybe even small enough to stash under Peter’s coat. Perhaps there aren’t any sand dunes nearby, but there are certainly sites with less foot traffic. “Based on past cakes, I suspect I could take this out of the oven early.”

Juno groans, and despite their circumstances Peter can’t help but crack a smile. It’s such a _Juno_ noise. “Still too risky. Don’t want to jostle the cake before it’s baked or something.” Then, for authenticity’s sake, “…You can test the center with a fork or a toothpick every couple minutes to see when it’s baked all the way through. If you’re worried about the sides burning, cover them with tinfoil.”

Peter’s brow furrows. Does Juno actually know how to bake a cake? “You’re a real life-saver, Mary.”

“I certainly hope so."

Juno ends the call. Peter treats the bomb to one last glare and shuffles back towards the opposite end of the stage. He can make out the bottoms of patrons’ shoes as they walk by. He seeks out the twin pillars of Juno’s heels. They're poised at the back corner of the stage, where the stage planks meet the wall. 

It’s the moment of truth. Peter stops at the end of the stage. He pinches the curtain between his fingers, then pushes the fabric aside.

The diameter of Juno’s gown works to Peter's advantage. From Juno’s position at the wall he can hide Peter from view as he sidles out from under the stage. It’s not overly dignified, as tricks go. But Peter would rather keep his life than his pride. Once he’s fully emerged and curled behind Juno’s dress, he delivers a short tug to Juno’s gown. Juno picks up his feet. Peter crawls with him a few short paces along the wall, past the auction cart and the emergency exit. Then they ease to a stop.

Now comes the riskiest part of the plan. Before any guests can come near, Peter unfurls from the ground. He peels away from Juno’s back like a second shadow, then comes to stand at his shoulder.

No one calls out. No one points any fingers. An older man cocks an eyebrow at them—but then he shakes his head and returns to his drink. There’s the usual babble of the crowd, and the clack of dress shoes on floor tiles. Peter and Juno stand side by side and still as stone, braced for an explosion. But the bomb doesn’t go off. The party rolls on. It seems the perp didn’t spot them amidst the forest of sequined gowns and tuxes. 

Juno sags with relief. 

“God damn,” he wheezes. “Remind me to never make coffee before a heist. Between the caffeine and the adrenaline I’m pretty sure my heart’s gonna’ punch out of my chest.”

“Don’t tell me this is your first bomb, Juno?”

“No, but the last one was sewed into a cat. Kind of hard to take a threat like that seriously.”

Before Peter can even begin to unpack that, a chime echoes over the party. 

“Attention, guests,” calls the doorman. “Attention. We will now begin tonight's auction. If you would all kindly take a seat before the main stage…”

“Let’s go to the front,” Juno suggests, already on to the next phase. “That way we can both keep an eye on the crowd. Maybe figure out whoever Zolatovna kept checking on before.”

“You told me they were on the right side of the room.”

“Sounds like we’ve found our table, then.” From their position at the edge of the stage, they’re only a few steps from an event table. Juno pulls back a chair. Peter follows suit. In one big wave of party clothes, two hundred guests take their seats.

Zolatovna takes the stage by storm.

“So,” Juno drawls, over the blare of the mic. His gestures to the massive crowd. “This…could be a problem.” 

“…That’s right, my friends, that’s right!” Zolatovna announces. “I’ve spent the last year hiding away, thinking about me; about who I am; about what I want; about the man I’m gonna marry any day now, just as soon as I find whatever nebula he’s hiding in and drag him away from it!”

On cue, her gaze slides to the right of the crowd. Peter does his best, but there’s no way to follow her line of sight. There are simply too many faces packed around too many tables.

Zolatovna charges on: “My great transformation...the metamorphosis that nobody expected; the change that shows the real me, as I always was: I got a haircut, y’all!”

There's a wild burst of applause. Zolatovna twirls, and her gown makes her glow like a morpho butterfly. She slows as the claps trail off, then takes a moment to tuck a few stray locks of hair behind her ears. “But enough about little old me. What do y’all say we begin the charity?”

More applause. A security guard rolls an antique portrait out onto the stage. Peter knows from the first time around that Zolatovna will let this one sell. He turns to Juno to tell him as much and starts at the intense look on his face. He’s like a bloodhound on the hunt, his one eye laser-focused on the right part of the crowd.

Peter knows that look. He’s onto something.

“Juno?” Peter prompts.

Juno doesn’t spare him a glance. “You see how everybody turns their heads when someone bids?”

“Yes?”

“Yeah, well. Keep an eye out for anyone who_ doesn’t do that._”

Of course. “The perp doesn’t have a reason to care about the bids. They’ll be focused on Zolatovna.”

“That’s the hope, yeah.”

“Seven million creds!” A woman shouts from the front of the room. Heads turn to follow the wave of her hand.

“Eight million!”

“Ten!” 

The crowd turns back and forth, back and forth. Peter searches for an outlier amidst the sea of faces. He wonders how to get a better vantage point.

Zolatovna claps her hands. “Sold to the absolute _stud_ at the back of the room! Congratulations, Mr. Darby! You can collect your prize from the table at the end of the auction. And next up for bidding…”

A cart rolls onto the stage, the Gilded Globe of Reaches Far perched atop a velvet pillow. 

“Only a few more minutes,” Peter warns. “If one of us stands, we may be able to get a better look at the hall.”

Juno grunts his assent. “You're taller and not dressed like a supernova.”

Peter sidesteps out of his chair. He pretends to stretch his legs as Zolatovna rattles off numbers from the stage: “Do I hear three million? Yes, three million creds from the lovely Ms. Dynn! Can I get a four million? Four, four, four—and oh! I hear _six!_ Six million for The Gilded Globe…”

Peter scours table after table. If the patrons’ heads don’t turn to follow every bid, they still move towards the more raucous ones. Peter clenches his teeth.

“That's ten million creds from the man who _will_ give me his number! Can I get an eleven million? Ooo, do I see—? I do! Twelve million creds! Who will match _twelve million creds_ for this gorgeous map of mine…”

A guest stands from his seat and bellows out a twenty. Faces turn all around the room to follow the proclamation—but one man at the center of the room doesn’t so much as twitch. 

Peter feels his chest go tight. The man’s hand is in his pocket. 

Peter mutters to Juno,

“A middle-aged man; chestnut tux; dark hair; third table from the front of the room, second from the right.”

Juno turns to look as Zolatovna says, “Sold for twenty million creds!”

“Dammit,” Juno growls. “I can’t…” he rises from his seat enough to peer over the front of the crowd. 

It’s the wrong move. They’re right by the stage; Juno’s gown snags on the perp's peripheral vision. His gaze flits from Zolatovna to Juno, then to Peter. 

He must not like what he sees, because he stands and stumbles away towards the bathrooms. 

In sync Juno and Peter surge up from their table. Patrons on all sides crane their necks to ogle as Juno and Peter careen towards the bathrooms. Peter doesn’t turn. He’s focused on the slap of his shoes on the floor; the golden blur of Juno's dress at his side as they weave between tables. Once Juno almost trips on his heels, but Peter rights him before he can spill onto the ground. 

Maybe Zolatovna remarks upon the scene. Peter can’t hear her over the squawks of the guests. Soon they’re free from the maze of tables; they advance on the bathrooms right as the man yanks the door shut behind him. 

There’s a slam as they barrel through after him. 

“Stay back!” a voice demands. “I’ve got a bomb!”

Juno shows his hands. Peter skids to a halt. The door swings shut behind them.

“You take one more step…” the man warns. He's short, with a beard and an askew bowtie. He brandishes a small, spherical device between his fingers. His thumb hovers dangerously close to a switch on one side.

Juno doesn't so much as pause. “What’ve you got against Zolatovna?”

Peter assumes that he'll be rebuffed—but Juno knows what he's doing. The man barks out a laugh like broken glass. 

“What’ve _I_ got against _her?"_ he guffaws. “You should be asking what _she_ has against _me!_”

“Well all right then, fine—what does _she_ have against _you?_”

“Hell if I fucking know!” the man shouts. Juno has struck a nerve: the man is starved for an audience. “Do you know what she’s selling up there?”

“Recreational drugs and a collection of fascist-colonial-era Outer Rim antiques?” Peter presumes. If he can get to that detonator while the man’s distracted…

The man takes the bait: “Presents!” he snarls. “Gifts. I bought that map—The Gilded Globe—for her on our _anniversary._ The Star Mirror was for her birthday last year. And The Heart of Venus…” his free hand becomes a fist at his side. “I _proposed to her_ with the Heart of Venus.”

Juno’s brow furrows. “She left you.”

“Yeah,” the man spits out. “She _left_ me. And now a year later that _bitch_ has the…the _nerve_—” He breaks off. Peter fears his grip will snap the detonator apart. “She. Has the nerve. To parade around with her new hair and her new dress and her new _life_, and auction off every piece of love I’ve ever given her, and flaunt how _single_ she is and how _better off_ she is now that _I’m_ out of her life—” 

Peter’s not sure why the words leave his mouth: “You don’t want to kill her.”

“No?” the man demands. He waves the detonator around, and his voice goes taut as a bowstring: “Then what’s this for, huh? To trigger the _balloon drop?_”

“If your goal was to kill Zolatovna, you wouldn’t be waiting for her to auction off your anniversary gift. You’re still hoping she’ll change her mind.” Peter pauses. “That she still loves you.”

The man’s face darkens. Then he makes a sound like a snarl. 

“I don’t need your psychoanalyst bullshit.” He waves the two of them aside. “Get over to that stall. Both of you.”

They don’t have much of a choice. Juno and Peter move to stand at the door of a bathroom stall.

The man gives them a wide berth as he makes for the door. “Now put your hands down and follow me out. But keep that distance, you hear me?”

More footsteps as Juno and Peter comply. The man pushes the bathroom door open with his back, both hands wrapped around the detonator. He leads them out onto the floor. The sounds of the busy auction ricochet around Peter’s skull. The man never turns his back to Peter or Juno. He walks backwards and at an arc, and only stops once he hits a wall. 

“Stay right there,” he orders. Peter and Juno hover about two yards away. “We’re gonna’ stand here, and we’re gonna’ watch the auction together, and _nobody's_ gonna' move.”

“Ten million creds!” Zolatovna booms from the stage. “Can I get ten million creds for this _authentic Venusian diamond?_”

Someone calls out a bid. The man’s gaze weaves between the stage and his two captives. Peter could list twenty-seven ways to take him out right then and there, but none of them would be faster than the thumb positioned over the detonation switch. 

Zolatovna cups a hand over her ear. “You there—do my ears deceive me? Do I hear fifteen million for The Heart of Venus?” 

Zolatovna turns to look at them—or, at the perp. This close to her target audience, Peter can get a sense of what that look actually _means. _

“Can _anyone _give me fifteen?” Zolatovna asks.

Juno rounds on their captor:

“_Bid_.”

The man starts at the power behind the word. “Excuse me?”

“_Bid on The Heart of Venus_,” Juno spells out. A woman bids seventeen million, and Zolatovna’s gaze rolls away to the other end of the crowd. “Zolatovna is trying to provoke you.”

“You don’t think I know that?” the man scoffs. “Why do you think she threw this gala in the first place? She wants to auction me out of her life and make me _watch_.”

“Twenty million!” Zolatovna shouts. “A bid of twenty million from the ever-generous Ms. Carlyle!” 

“It’s not like that!” Juno says. He throws a hand towards the stage. “Look at her! Look at the way she keeps checking for your reaction every time she flirts or sets up a bid! She made up a big event to draw you out, and put all your gifts on display to see whether you would still care enough to show up. If you were angry or upset or you _bid_, that would mean you _weren’t over her!_”

“Twenty-two million creds! Can I get a twenty-two million?”

The man's thumb spasms over the detonator switch. Juno soldiers on: “Those gifts you told us about? She hasn’t sold a single one. She’s putting them onstage for _you _to bid on, and when you don’t, she buys them herself to make sure no one else gets ahold of them!”

“Anyone at twenty-two million?”

Juno dares to take a step forward. “She wants you to show her that you still love her!”

“Going once…”

The man doesn’t respond. Doesn't so much as twitch.

“Going twice…” 

Juno’s upturned fingers are claw-like: “_Give her a sign!_”

“Going _three times_—”

Zolatovna turns back to the man. It’s like her gaze shocks him back to life. 

“Thirty million!” he screams.

The whole room grows quiet. Two hundred heads turn to face their ruffled assembly. There are a couple confused murmurs. Someone blows their nose. 

“…Thirty million,” Zolatovna echoes. She sounds dazed. “Thirty million from my darling Jacob Potts.”

Jacob’s expression is unreadable. His whole hand trembles around the detonator. 

Zolatovna clears her throat. “Thirty-five million? Would anyone else like to place a bid?”

It’s like all the drama has ratcheted up the Heart’s value. A hand pops up. “Thirty-five.”

Another follows suit. “Forty!” 

Juno shoots Peter a look of his own. It’s a look that harkens back to a murder case one or maybe a hundred years ago, when two very different people stood at the precipice of a disaster and decided to trust one another.

In the present, the bid war rages on. “Forty-five!” Someone shouts.

Now that Jacob’s had a taste of the action, he won’t be outbid. “Fifty!” 

“Sixty!”

Peter searches Juno’s face. _Are you sure?_

“Seventy!” Jacob declares.

A guest rounds on Jacob from a chair at the front of the room. “Ninety!” they bang on the table. 

Juno nods.

Fire flashes behind Jacob’s eyes. “Two hundred million!” 

That earns him a few claps from the audience. Jacob’s thumb slips off the side of the detonator, and Peter lunges forward.

Several things happen within the span of three seconds. Peter wrenches his fingers around the pressure point along Jacob’s lower arm. He yanks his wrist down with the other hand. Zolatovna shouts, “Sold!”—and Juno snatches the detonator from Jacob’s grasp. 

“Security!” Juno bellows. He waves the detonator for the crowd to see. “This man planted a bomb under the auction stage!” 

The crowd rumbles with alarm. Zolatovna gapes. She casts a panicked glance at Jacob, where Peter has him pinned with an arm around his throat. “Madame Dauphin! How _dare_ you—”

“Check the stage if you don’t believe me! There’s a bomb, and his fingerprints’ll be all over it! You need to evacuate everyone _right now_—”

But several guests beat him to the punch. Two launch out of their seats—then five. The trickle of motion becomes a wave, until the whole room bustles with the shouts and footfall of two hundred frantic party guests. There’s a mad rush to the front of the room. Over the heads of the crowd Peter can make out the dispersion of Zolatovna’s security detail. A few officers make to peel Zolatovna off the stage. Others commandeer the mic.

“Everyone remain calm!” a voice booms out over the loudspeakers. “Do not run to the door!”

The crowd, of course, takes this as a go-ahead to run to the door. More platitudes are delivered over the mic, but no one pays them any mind. Two guards shoulder their way towards Peter, Juno, and their prisoner. Jacob wriggles like a cod under Peter’s grip. Peter only shoves his arm down against his windpipe.

Juno’s chest heaves. He peers at Peter and Jacob, then across to where the officers plow towards them like a couple of well-clad army tanks.

Peter knows they’ve both come to the same conclusion. They don’t want to be around when Zolatovna’s security detail reaches this part of the room. 

Peter raises a hand. Juno grimaces, but nods his permission. 

Peter grasps Jacob by the arm and rips him around. He delivers a sharp punch to his gut—the kind that will keep him down for a while—and lets him crumple to the ground.

“The front doors will be barred for some time!” Peter shouts over the noise. 

Juno pockets the detonator. “We can put this under the stage on our way out! There’s that side door at the back!” 

It's decided. The two turn and run without preamble.

When Peter grabs Juno to tug him along, he holds his hand, not his wrist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUGH! Here's what I managed to finish before midnight. Maybe the ep will be delayed and I'll get to publish the last bit before we hear Man in Glass Part 2...otherwise, I'll see you on the other side!
> 
> -Blares "1x1x1" by Cloud Cult- ♪ ♫ You are here to let the cards fall one by one! You're here to let your walls down one by one! You're here to peel the layers off one by one by one by one... ♫
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at [Jitterbug-juno!](http://jitterbug-juno.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Comments are love, comments are life! I don't always reply, but I DO always see them and fall out of my chair with SHEER JOY!


	4. Chapter 4

Peter doesn’t process most of their escape. He lets whatever persona has control of his body steer him out the door, past the ship hangars and on to the neighborhood beyond the auction house. He registers the mansions on a peripheral level, as he might look past a tiny streak on his glasses. _For later, for later, for later,_ his mind chants. _We’ll sort this out later._

It’s started to get dark. Juno has long since ditched his high heels. Peter feels his coat catch on a bush as he and Juno fumble across a backyard. Then there’s asphalt under his feet—and a cobbled pathway. A wooden fence opens to reveal another garden. Peter and Juno run on and on and on. 

Peter doesn’t know what part of him decides they’ve gone far enough, or why—but when he sees a studio shed at the back of a long backyard, he tugs Juno towards the door. They still haven’t let go of each other’s hands. Juno’s grip verges on painful now, and there’s sweat scrunched between their palms, and Peter would rather die than pull away.

It turns out they don’t even have to pick the shed lock. It’s that kind of neighborhood, where the threat of burglary barely crosses people’s minds. Juno’s dress bunches up against Peter’s legs as they stumble over the threshold. Peter retains the muscle memory to shut the shed door behind them—and then they’re alone. Hidden. For now, at least. 

At his side, Juno fishes his comms out of his dress pocket. He dials, nearly drops the comms, then presses them to his ear. Juno’s winded enough that he has to work to get the words out: “Buddy. We…got away. Can you—?”

Peter can’t make out Buddy’s response. He’s not sure whether to blame the fact on the volume of Juno’s comms or the smokescreen between his ears. He feels…numb. Like his edges have started to bleed. The hand clasped around Juno’s feels like a prop. 

Then Juno has to pull his hand away to fiddle with his comms—and the tether snaps. Peter’s gone. He completes the transition from conductor to bystander of his own life. He stands still for a while, like a doll waiting to be played with. Then someone else’s feet carry him to the desk by the shed window.

A tape strip pins down one side of a watercolor portrait; someone else’s thumb traces the edge, up and back. It’s a portrait of…who? Peter doesn’t know. From his window somewhere beyond his body, he doesn’t know why he would ever expect to know…

“Ransom?” Juno says. “What’s wrong?”

The words don’t echo. They aren’t muted. But they feel distant anyhow, the same way Peter’s hands and lungs and thoughts feel distant. 

“Ransom.”

Peter hates that name. He has his back to Juno and he can’t turn around. He stares down at the wooden desk—at the grooves that wind around each other, then unravel. Wind, unravel. 

The barest pressure finds Peter’s shoulder. Fingers flex against the fabric of his coat. Wind.

“Nureyev,” Juno murmurs.

Unravel.

It happens all at once. A part of Peter crashes back to life; a sob tears through him like a butcher knife. He curls a fist over his chest.

“How can—how are we alive? After I…after we _both_…”

Peter doesn’t remember what his death felt like. He doesn’t remember the pain of the collapse or the collision. But he remembers the taste of smoke and dust. He remembers the screams. He remembers Juno, and the gut-drop of free-fall.

He remembers the _fear._

The gap remains between his mind and his limbs, but suddenly Peter has the sense to panic over the fact—over how _removed_ he feels from his own body. Over how the world feels like cheap plastic under his feet. 

“I’m not—” Peter’s cheeks are hot and wet. He can barely fit any air down his throat. Juno’s hand spasms on his shoulder. “It’s not real. None of this is real.”

“What? No.” Juno’s other hand finds Peter’s elbow. “Nureyev, no. You’re real. I’m real. We escaped—we’re safe. We’re okay.”

But Peter’s not okay. Peter’s lost under the maze of his own skin. His mind has been ransacked. His cabinets are overturned; his files lost to the winds; his mask torn off to reveal—

He doesn’t know. Has he ever known?

“Nureyev?” Juno parrots, like that’s a real person. The room has started to spin. “Fuck—how do I—what can I do?”

“Just…” Peter burns where Juno’s hands meet his arm and shoulder. His answer shudders out of him: “Hold me?”

It’s tiny. It’s broken. It’s worth the shame, to hear Juno breathe, “Of course,” like that’s all he’s ever wanted to do. To feel Juno’s arms wind around his middle and constrict, as though he means to be proof of Peter’s realness. 

The void recedes with the pressure around Peter’s torso—the rise and fall of the ribcage pressed to his back. When he wants to protect someone, Juno has a presence about him that makes him seem larger than life. Now he holds Peter—and Peter doesn’t feel safe, but he does feel taped together.

“Holy shit, Nureyev,” Juno says. One of his hands comes up to rest over Peter’s heart. “You shake any harder and you’re gonna’ fall apart. It’s okay. I’ve got you, okay?”

Peter nods. Then his legs give out. 

Juno curses—but he has a strong grip on Peter’s torso, and he manages to lower them both to the ground with some modicum of dignity. He repeats the phrase like a mantra: 

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’ve got you…”

Peter’s lungs feel like they’re full of cotton. He lets Juno arrange him so he’s propped up against his chest, his body bracketed by Juno’s legs. Another cry sneaks out past Peter’s teeth.

Juno props his chin atop Peter’s shoulder. He shushes him, then presses more nonsense words to the curve of his neck. 

“I lost you,” Peter says, once he’s figured out how. “I keep losing you, over and over.”

Juno makes a horrible, distressed little sound. Against all odds he manages to hug Peter tighter. 

“You’ve got me now,” he vows. “I’m right here. It’s over.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

Juno fits his head more snugly between Peter’s neck and his shoulder. “You told me you’d been to that party before. But you’d never stopped the bomb. That was all new to you.” 

Peter does his best not to sniffle. He fails. “Yes.”

“So you survived. We survived. We solved the mystery. We’re _done._”

As though Peter’s life were some kind of murder mystery stream. It only makes him feel more fake. 

Juno frees one hand to grasp Peter’s wrist. “Hey. Stay with me, okay? Feel the floor under you. Feel your coat on your wrist. The fabric, I mean.” He squeezes for emphasis. “Hear the wind outside?”

Peter focuses because Juno told him to. He’s surprised to find that he _can_ hear the wind. It’s subtle, but there’s a whistle where it skirts over the shed’s thatched roof. Tiny scraps of debris click against the metal door. A beam settles somewhere along the far wall.

Juno goes on: “What about the paint? You can smell that, right?” 

The tears have started to cool on Peter’s cheeks. He uses his free hand to scrub them dry, and bumps his glasses. “I’m…afraid I may be a bit too congested for that.”

“Well, you can trust me, then. This place reeks of wood polish and paint.” His grip changes on Peter’s wrist. Juno seems to gather his wits; he dares to brush his thumb back and forth across the back of Peter’s hand, much like how Peter traced the tape on the portrait. “We’re on Earth’s moon, and we saved the lives of over a hundred people, and we stole the map—”

“Stole the—no we did _not._”

Somehow Peter can _feel_ Juno’s smirk. The hand not wrapped around Peter’s wrist slips away. There’s a rustle of fabric, and Juno brandishes the Gilded Globe. “Turns out a comms bomb makes for a hell of a distraction.”

“You—” Peter goggles at the map, at a loss. In that moment he forgets to be afraid. “The ‘sold’ cart. It was by the back door.”

He feels Juno shrug against his back. “We passed by and I uh…you know.”

_You know._ Peter shocks himself with a laugh. He doesn’t get far before his blocked sinuses turn the sound to a cough. There’s a name for the wild thing that blooms between his ribs—one he’s not ready to pin down. He still feels like he’s a half-step out of his body, and his hands still shake where he realigns his glasses, but there’s also…a sense of realness, now. A chest at his back; a floor beneath his legs; rafters over his head. Peter can almost trust the world not to peel away at the edges. 

He cranes his head around, enough to see Juno’s face. He’s so close to his neck that Peter’s lips almost brush the side of his head.

“You never cease to amaze me, Juno.”

Peter swears Juno’s grip falters around his wrist. Then he chuckles, and the pressure returns. “Not bad for my first day, huh?” Then, “Are you…um. Do you feel…more _real_, I guess?”

Peter feels his lips twitch.Then he clears his throat.

“I’m not so sure I ever was.”

Juno tilts his head on Peter’s shoulder. “What do you mean?”

Peter resists the urge to rest his head against Juno’s. He’s started to catch on to the miraculousness of their position. A few hours ago he was sure Juno would rather hold a hot coal than his hand. Yet now he drapes himself across Peter’s back like a blanket. Peter has to work to untangle his thoughts, so struck by the press of Juno’s body: 

“In the past two decades, I’ve presented as ‘Peter Nureyev’ for a little over two weeks. I’ve spent more of my life as an alias than I have my ‘real self.’ I fear…I fear that part of me may not even exist.” A pause. “I honestly don’t know who I am, Juno. And that…scares me.”

Juno doesn’t seem to know what to say to that. He slips his hand up Peter’s wrist, slow and steady, to press his thumb to the center of Nureyev’s palm. 

Then Peter feels Juno tense against his back.

“This still okay?” he asks. His voice cracks at the end, and he clears his throat.

Peter smiles. “So long as you promise to tell me when I get too heavy.”

“Oh, please. If you were any lighter you’d be made of paper mâché.” 

His tone teeters on the edge of concern. Before Peter can form a rebuttal, Juno says, “Hey. This is gonna’ sound really stupid, but uh…”

Now that he has Peter’s permission, Juno fiddles with Peter’s hand. He pulls the palm down to Peter’s chest, and Peter feels the thud of his own rapid heartbeat.

“…Yes?” Peter prompts, when Juno doesn’t go on.

“If I listed off some facts about you…” He groans. “Never mind.”

“Well, now I’m curious. You have to tell me.”

“It’s…ugh. If I listed some facts about you. Or, more like _guesses._ Would you tell me whether or not they’re right?”

Peter doesn’t see the harm. He suspects that Buddy will be a while. “I…suppose I could try.” 

“Mnn.” Juno drums his fingers over the back of Peter’s hand. “Okay. Here’s one: you like artificial sweeteners.”

Peter pulls a face. As Juno snorts he says, “What have I _ever_ done to make you say something so offensive?”

“Oh, come on. I saw you steal like twenty packs of ‘em from our hotel room.”

“It’s a habit.”

“To steal whatever’s not bolted down, you mean?”

“There are worse ways to pass the time.”

Juno only hums at him. It’s a fond sound, and Peter’s heart performs another backflip. “Fine. Revised theory: you like to pickpocket things when you’re bored. Doesn’t matter whether you like ‘em or you think they’ll come in handy later.”

Peter shrugs his unoccupied shoulder. “I’ve been caught.”

“Next one, then. You like history.”

“History?”

“I mean, you like to learn about history. And talk about history.” Juno makes a wobbly gesture with his free hand. “Maybe archeology.”

“Why? Because I stole so many artifacts?”

“What? Oh. Yeah, no. I know that was Miasma. It was the way you talked about them. When you were Rex Glass you were fascinated by Grimm’s Mask, but when we were...underground. You sounded the same when you talked about the hieroglyphics. Like you were…captivated, and you wanted me to feel the same way.”

It makes sense, Peter muses. Out of all his aliases, he's the fondest of Howell the archaeology professor. “Another yes. What next?”

Peter has his head turned enough to see Juno purse his lips. “You like to doodle.”

“True.”

“With a real pen and paper, not a pad.”

“Also true. I like the texture and…_sound_ of real paper.”

“That's fair.” Juno pauses. “You don’t have to answer this one, but uh. You’re a man.”

Peter crosses one ankle over the other, his legs still framed by Juno’s. Their feet will be horribly blistered tomorrow. “Yes.”

“And you like…”

“Men,” Peter confirms. “And ladies such as yourself, of course.”

Juno absorbs that one like a blow. Peter processes the words on a delay; he feels his cheeks go red as a stovetop. 

“Juno—”

“I can’t do this with your back to me.” Juno props Peter up off his chest. Peter feels a pang at the loss of contact, all the way from his chest to his fingers. “Sit up for a sec.”

Peter obeys without question. Juno doesn’t stand; he shuffles around until he’s seated before Peter on the floor, barely a foot away. He has to fuss with his dress for a while to untangle his legs. Once free, he clasps his hands together over his lap—tight enough to strain the tendons.

Juno looks at Peter like he expects him to be the one to break the silence. But Peter has forgotten how to do much more than sit and stare and ache. 

It takes what feels like a lifetime. When the words do come, they slip out on an exhale:

“…Your next guess?”

Juno starts. Then something too small to be a smile plays at his lips.

“Okay,” he whispers. He coughs, and speaks louder for the next part: “You have a strong moral compass, even though you don’t like to admit it.”

That one’s easy. For all his boxes and folders, Peter has been haunted by his conscience since the day he left Brahma. “Yes.”

“You like…” Juno takes a moment to consider. “Oh, I give up. Synth music?”

“I’m not sure. I think…” He's struck by a memory of the New Kinshasa street market. “I might like guitars. It’s…complicated.”

Juno gets that air about him, like he understands. It’s easy to forget, somehow, that Juno bore witness to that part of Peter’s history. “You know, I think I might feel the same way about dancing.”

The admission feels like something precious. “…Yes?”

“Yeah. Where it’s all…tangled up in trauma. But maybe the love’s still there somewhere. Like you said: complicated.”

Peter almost reaches out to him, then. He catches himself before he can lift his hand. “You danced with me tonight.”

“I did, didn’t I?”

“Thank you.”

It’s a real smile on Juno’s face now. He observes Peter for a while, like an astronomer might study the night sky. Peter wonders whether Juno can make sense of him. Connect the dots to form a constellation. Spin direction and beauty out of an endless, barren abyss.

Then Juno closes the gap. He settles two fingers atop Peter’s arm. 

“So,” Juno says. Peter’s hands are totally still now. “Your name is Peter Nureyev. You’re a man, and you like men and…” Juno flounders for purchase, then skips ahead: “You don’t like artificial sweeteners. You like to steal things just because you can. You like archeology, and you like to doodle on real paper because you like the texture. You might like guitar music. And you have a strong sense of justice.”

“All correct.”

“Then uh. That sounds like a person to me, right?”

Peter’s legs have started to ache from their crossed position on the floor. He doesn’t dare move, scared to shake off Juno’s fingers. “Those are…Juno. That’s only a list of basic attributes.” The sort of thing Peter would compile for a new alias.

“Yeah, I mean. Not to get too deep or anything, but as far as I can tell—that’s kind of all people are, at the end of the day.” Another finger lands on Peter’s arm. “There’s no nesting doll, with this shining real person at the core of us. There’s just…the choices we make. A list of things we like, and who and what we care about.”

“That sounds very nebulous,” Peter muses. The Ship of Theseus comes to mind. “In that scenario, at what point do you become a new person? How many likes and values would you need to change out, to negate your old self?”

Juno snorts. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I have no goddamn clue. I’m…kind of a stranger to myself too, at this point. If _you’re_ not real, then…”

Peter feels the heat of Juno’s hand—runs the soft rumble of his voice through his head on a loop—and wonders. He wonders about Juno, and how he’s changed. About whether his growth has made him a new person.

Peter covers Juno’s hand. 

“Well. Maybe we’re both not real. Maybe we’re both strangers to ourselves. To each other.” Peter has to work to keep his heart rate under control. He takes a risk: “But I’d…like to see. How those two strangers get along.”

Juno stares for a second, like his brain has to catch up to his ears. Then that sunny smile widens, and the tension releases around Peter’s ribs.

“I’d be honored to get to know you, Peter.” 

It’s adoration, Peter thinks. That’s the look on Juno’s face. 

It terrifies Peter. It makes him happier than he thought he knew how to be. It makes him tear up, which he hopes Juno doesn’t pick out. He’s seen Peter cry enough for one day. 

Peter disguises a sniffle with another cough. His face hurts, and he still can’t quite breathe through his nose. He must look like a mess. 

“Likewise,” he manages.

A lady named Juno Steel turns up his palm, and a man named Peter Nureyev laces their fingers—and maybe, for now, that’s enough. 

Juno was right. The empty vacuum of space does provide ample room for self-reflection. Between the next few missions, Peter does his best to get to know himself. With his mental office demolished, he rebuilds his headspace to resemble something more like a house. There are still files and boxes and closets—but now there are also sticky notes and bulletin boards and bookshelves. Peter has decided he wants his mind to feel less like a place of work. He wants to be at home when he peruses his memory banks.

And if that space starts to resemble the Carte Blanche…no one has to know.

In the real world, Peter keeps a tally of his likes and dislikes. He’d noticed, before—how he took his coffee, or his favorite dress shirt. But he’d always regarded those things as roadblocks to overcome or file away, so as not to put his mask at risk. It still feels dangerous, after two decades of secrecy, for Peter to act out his honest-to-god _personal preferences_ outside the privacy of a hotel room. For him to wear the makeup he wants to wear, and talk with his hands whenever he likes, and laugh his real laugh, and not monitor his tone and accent to match his alias of the week.

It’s a slow process. Peter still wears a mask more often than not. It’s a habit, to be fake. A habit, and a skill—one that Peter has refined over many years. To be authentic requires concentration now, and Peter doesn’t always have the energy to hold down his walls. 

He’s lucky to have Juno. Juno, who hordes Peter’s likes and habits and values like treasure. Juno, who lies with Peter late at night when he feels too distant to sleep. Juno, who has his own doubts and fears, and whom Peter loves more and more, for each new part of him he uncovers. Juno Steel reminds Peter why he’d want to become himself.

“It could happen again,” Peter says one day, apropos of nothing. “I don’t know how this works. How I might trigger another time loop.”

Juno takes a moment to dwell on the prospect. He and Rita bought some lovely nail polish at the last swap market; he paints another line of color onto Peter’s fingernail. It’s blue, at Peter’s request. 

After he’s finished the nail, Juno says, “We got out last time, didn’t we? So…we’ll do the same thing.”

“Stop a mass homicide, you mean?”

“More like ‘work together to solve the problem,’ but sure. If you want to get technical.”

Peter grins. “Juno.”

“Yeah?”

The brush tickles the edge of Peter's finger. He feels his grin become something softer—dangerously open. 

“Nothing.”

Maybe he can’t say this yet, but he’ll get there. He suspects Juno knows already, from the way he beams as he starts on Peter’s next nail. 

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” Juno says.

Peter does know. He knows he’s a piece of work; he knows he likes fog and mint candy and the hum of the ship at night; he knows he loves Juno Steel. 

He knows they have time to figure out the rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Bursts in three months late, covered in ashes and leaf litter- WHAT YEAR IS IT
> 
> Soooo I might've gotten a bit stuck on this last chapter. I could NOT figure out how to tie things together. So...I've done what I can! I WASH MY HANDS OF THIS PLACE!
> 
> The “But I’d…like to see. How those two strangers get along" line is absolutely a "Juno Steel and the Time Gone By" reference. I love...Buddy and Vespa...
> 
> You know that scene in Howl's Moving Castle where Sophie compliments Calcifer's spark, and he says, "She likes my spARK!" And he blows the fuck up and the house SPRINTS away? That's my reaction to comments. I may not reply to them (for all my capital letters I'm a shy soul) but I ALWAYS read them and they ALWAYS make my day (and make me lift my giant castle house and streak away through the countryside).
> 
> Juno's "what do you feel, what do you hear, what do you smell" checklist is a very distant relative of the 5-4-3-2-1 grounding technique, where you list five things you can see, four things you can touch, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, and one thing you can taste. It's helpful for dissociation and derealization, and I love to think that Rita passed it on to Juno at some point.
> 
> As for the list part...that's inspired by a YouTube series about autistic masking. Part 2 of the series is called "What Is This Mask Called Me?" and asks the viewer to lists all sorts of things about themselves, like their gender and their core values and what they like to do. It then presents those points as an "identity." It made me feel a bit more at home under my own skin, so if you'd like to check it out, [here's the link.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q42-ciacU4c)
> 
> In any case, I hope you guys enjoyed this fic! I sometimes post oneshots on Tumblr but not on AO3; you can find me at [Jitterbug-juno.](https://jitterbug-juno.tumblr.com/)


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